The First Time
by TheWitch'sCat
Summary: A series of one-shots that read between the lines of BN, looking at Michael and Fi's relationship.
1. Chapter 1

**So...my first BN fic, although I've been contemplating one for a while. I hope you'll read and review, as life has interrupted fanfiction this past year, and I could use some encouragment as I hopefully start posting some things. But most importantly, enjoy.**

**Notes...I've taken a little liberty with the backstory of Michael and Fiona's past. If I contradict anything, it's just because I wanted to go my own way. Also, some of what I hint at in Fiona's past is pulled from an episode where she is determined to help a young girl who was sexually assaulted and says to Michael, "I feel very strongly about this." Just me reading between the lines.**

* * *

**The First Time: Physical**

**_Miami, shortly after Michael is burned._**

Fiona was contemplating leaving.

_ I should, really,_ she told herself.

She couldn't think of a good reason to stay. Michael wouldn't do the same for her. He hadn't done the same for her. He had walked out on her, left her in a run-down flat in the middle of the night with nothing but an angry, broken heart and a web of lies.

Staring at him now, she could tell he was injured. Still, it was hard to find compassion. Michael was no easy target. Fiona knew he'd most likely been wounded in a fight he started. From the looks of things, he had some broken ribs, maybe a concussion. He'd been out for a while. He could have brain damage for all she knew.

_I should leave,_ she told herself again, _He'll never know I was here. I'll leave him some money and maybe call an ambulance. He'll be fine. It's more than he did for me…_

Still, Fiona couldn't make herself move. Whatever it was that had possessed her to come all this way in the first place, whatever drew her to Michael Westen had her in its grip again. So she sat there, staring at him, angry at him. She stared at him and clearly remembered the first time she saw him. She remembered their first meeting, their first job together working for the IRA. She remembered their first hideout, their first brush with death, the first time they'd had to defend one another.

She watched his slow, even breathing, and remembered.

_The first time…_

* * *

_**Ten years earlier, Ireland.**_

Fiona slammed the heavy, wooden door behind them, furiously locking the dead bolts while Michael scanned the place for anyone hiding in the shadows. Then she turned and leaned against the ancient doorframe, her chest heaving with the effort of running. She watched Michael as he checked the main room, the bathroom, the closet, and every shadowy corner.

Finally speaking up, Fiona called out, "It's safe. This place is a fortress."

Michael came back down the short entry hallway, asking in a thick accent that matched her own, "You built a fortress out of a run-down flat in the fourth ward?"

Fiona's lips twitched in a little smirk, "There's a reason I chose the basement unit. And it's not because I'm against large windows and high ceilings."

Tucking his gun in his belt, Michael cracked a smile in return, "You are constantly full of surprises Fiona Glenanne."

Breezing past him into the one-room, studio space she sometimes called home, Fiona threw out, "You said you wanted to work with the best."

Following her, Michael replied, "If only I had known 'the best' was going to be a tiny woman with patience that only lasts as long as her latest hand-made fuse."

Whipping around, gun still in hand, Fiona asked, "Are you mocking me?"

Throwing his hands up in defense, Michael said, "I wouldn't dream of it. And I suppose you've proven yourself."

Setting the gun aside and smiling again, Fiona couldn't help adding, "And you've barely seen what I can really do."

Michael chuckled, and then just watched her for a moment.

Fiona straightened the duvet, which looked expensive compared to the rickety bed it was spread over. Then, she stood and inspected the rest of the room, her long, auburn hair swinging nearly to her waist.

Michael hadn't thought her to be particularly attractive when they'd first met. Of course, she'd been wearing coveralls to hide the small arsenal she'd been packing. Her hair had been dirty and hastily pulled out of her face. Her features were all bones and angles, with lips that seemed more comfortable smirking or pouting than smiling. And when she'd first looked at him, Michael had never seen more Irish eyes in his life. She had raked those eyes over him, eyes that hovered somewhere between emerald green and the color of the stormy sea. He'd kept his cool, looking at her. He wasn't lying to himself when he decided he didn't find her attractive, then. But he knew he'd met his match. She was a killer with a cause, a lost soul who'd been wounded and wanted absolution from the world. So much like him. He'd been attracted to the idea of working with her. Now, though, he realized he was seeing more.

Fiona continued to peruse the room, checking for anything out of order. She stopped at a rickety shelf and meticulously straightened her nic-nacs. Michael watched as she absentmindedly shook a snow globe before sitting it next to two similar ones. He watched the way her long fingers gracefully touched the things she loved most, delicate things, for someone who could be so destructive. His eyes followed her as she walked back to the bed.

Lounging back on her elbows, she kicked off her shoes and stretched her long, lithe legs. Michael couldn't help noticing the way her filmy dress clung to her body, hinting at curves beneath. He suddenly realized how impractical it was, to wear a dress while manning an assault rifle. Glancing at her manicured toes, he wondered how she'd ever managed to keep up with him, running from small arms fire in heels. She was an enigma, Fiona, and Michael suddenly realized he wanted to touch her. Realizing the dangerous path his emotions were taking, he reacted, and tried to piss her off.

"I'll stay here for the night, in case anyone followed us," Michael stated, glancing out one of the high, murky windows.

Stretching to her feet like a cat who'd spotted prey, Fiona stated, "I can take care of myself."

"Really?" Michael raised an eyebrow, "In those heels?"

Fiona cocked her head, and he could almost see her bristling with anger, "I outran you here, didn't I?"

Pulling out his gun and inspecting the cartridge, Michael argued, "You weren't the one shooting."

Stepping closer to him, Fiona growled, "Are you underestimating me because of your own ego, or because I'm a woman?"

Michael smiled, "A little of both, maybe?"

Her eyes flashed, and Fiona spat, "You have no idea who you're working with, Michael McBride."

With that, she whipped the gun from his hand. In a second, Fiona had his right arm behind his back and his neck in a crushing hold. Reacting on instinct, Michael kicked her feet out from under her and flipped her over onto the bed. His immediate reaction was to apologize, but before he could get out words Fiona was back on her feet. She came at him swinging, getting in several well-placed blows to his ribs before he could swing her around and lock his arms around her. Fighting her forward, he pushed her down on the bed and held her, trying both to defend himself and yet not hurt her.

"Get off of me!" she hissed, struggling.

"Fiona, you made your point. We don't help anyone if we kill each other," Michael stated.

"What about if I just kill you?" Fiona threatened as she struggled to free herself.

"I believe you. I believe if you wanted me dead, I'd be dead," Michael conceded.

After a moment, Fiona finally stopped fighting. Michael loosed his grip just enough so she could turn over and face him. Her eyes searched his and Michael started to repeat what he'd said. Before he got any words out, Fiona slapped him hard across the face. Recoiling and having to admit to himself how strong she was, Michael met her eyes again. Then, they stared at each other.

Fiona studied Michael's eyes, realizing in her anger how very blue they were. She looked at him and, for the first time, he wasn't just an operative, a cohort, or an accomplice. He was a man, pinning her to her bed.

For a moment, she felt a pulse of fear. Secrets she'd buried, haunted memories, stole their way into her mind for the briefest moment. Another day, another man, before she'd really learned to fight, before she'd been hardened and trained. Images of her sister, laid out on the floor next to her when the men had gone. Both girls had been striped of clothes and dignity. Both had fought for their lives. But Claire was dead. And Fiona would never forget the sight and smell of the blood. She would never lose the rage and the helplessness she'd felt.

She had sworn off of men that day. Not out of fear or shame, but out of sheer hatred. She would toy with them, flirt with them and let things go so far. She would let them kiss and touch, and then she would shoot them. Her sexuality became a tool used against her enemies, and all others were kept distant. Fiona Glenanne needed no one, wanted no one. Until now.

Looking in Michael's eyes, she was certain of his respect for her. There was something about him that matched her, made sense to her, as though she knew him in a way he didn't yet know himself.

_He's been hurt, too_, she thought, wondering how she could know.

And so, having never had much control over her impulses, Fiona reached up, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. Michael seemed startled, but didn't pull away. Instead, he relaxed into her, and Fiona felt his hands on her bare arms. She parted her lips and let the kiss deepen, feeling the heat start to grow between them.

After some time, Michael pulled back and asked, "What are you doing, Fiona?"

Not wanting him to know that she had absolutely no idea, wanting to hold onto control, she stated, "What? You don't recognize foreplay?"

"You tried to kill me," Michael argued.

"I know," Fiona smirked, and pulled him in for another kiss.

Michael's hands wandered up to her hair this time, his fingers tangling in its length. Fiona let her fingers find their way into his hair, relishing how absolutely right it felt to be with him like this. It wasn't until she started to work at the buttons on his shirt that Michael pulled away.

Flushed, he started, "I don't know that this is a good idea…"

He sat up on the bed, and Fiona followed him, nearly pulling herself into his lap as she argued, "You know how you react, when someone has a gun to your head and you just do what your body tells you to do? How you go with what you feel, without thinking? That's how we live, Michael. So…go with it. And if we regret it, it can't be worse than shooting someone, can it?"

It was clearly the most unusual seduction Michael had ever experienced. Fiona could see that she'd spoken his language. She'd gotten to him. And he ceased to protest. So she pressed on, hoping her aggressiveness would cover the fact that, past a certain point, she had no idea what she was doing.

She went on instinct, pushing him back onto the bed and stripping him of his shirt and belt. He kicked off his shoes as she began working her mouth over his neck and down his chest. Fiona could see him starting to lose his calm, even control over himself as she let her tongue trail over his skin.

Meeting his eyes again, she said, "You taste salty, and you smell a bit like gunpowder."

It was their own kind of dirty talk, and Michael pulled her back down and kissed her fiercely. Deftly, he worked his hands under the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head. Not surprisingly, there wasn't much underneath the dress, and Fiona was all but naked. Feeling at a disadvantage, she ran her hands over his chest again, and then let her fingers loosen his pants. With a swift, somewhat violent tug she pulled them away, and then she laid herself out on top of him.

Michael's eyes were fixed on her, studying her between every kiss, betraying his usual stoic indifference with every shuddering breath he took. She knew he was a little in awe of her, and she relished the power. But deeper, she wanted him desperately. Fiona wanted it to be him. She didn't think of herself as a virgin. Her innocence had long since been ripped away. She was no chaste flower. But no one had ever touched her like this, had ever been allowed to unravel her and hold her this way.

_And I want it to be you_, she told herself, because she couldn't admit it to him.

So she let him roll her over, to settle his weight between her thighs so she could feel his arousal through the thin fabric that still separated them. She let him kiss her lips until they were sore and then run his mouth over her neck. He ran his tongue over the cleft at the base of her neck, and she whimpered. Michael kissed each breast while running his warm hands over her bare stomach. He finally pulled their undergarments away and then settled with her again. Now, though, they were flesh against flesh.

Fiona felt a very literal ache, and she was shocked at the strength of how much she simply _wanted._ Looking at him, every inch of him lit up something within her, made her feel like she'd been drugged, shot with something that made her blood run like fire. She ran her hands over the muscles in his arms, flexed from keeping his weight off her chest. She studied his scars and his rugged features. She nuzzled his neck and caught the scent of gunpowder again, mixed with sweat and cologne. She let her hands run down his back, relishing in knowing his strength. Fiona touched his bare buttocks, and Michael inhaled sharply.

"Fiona," he choked out, and, for the first time, his eyes were needy.

So she kissed him again and shifted her weight so he could press himself inside of her. She kept kissing him as he moved with her, as his chest slid against hers. She let her legs tangle around his. His arms held her tighter and the friction between them heated their skin and drew a sheen of sweat from each of them. Fiona let herself go, with him. She let herself feel, to ride the waves of pleasure and give in to the sheer intensity of the moment.

Then, she felt him climax. He clutched her tightly and buried his head in her neck. And then her body gave in as well. She hadn't known what to expect, and the feeling of such power and surrender at the same time caught her off guard. Fiona dug her nails into his back and couldn't hold back a cry. She held him, went with him, took him and gave in to him.

And after a long time, she realized she was trembling. When Michael finally looked at her, he kissed her softly. Then, for the first of many times, she saw a look he saved only for her.

His eyes searched hers in concern, and he asked, "Are you okay?"

To cover things she couldn't admit, Fiona smirked and said, "Of course. What? Do you think this is my first time?"

Michael looked at her, trying to see through her, their bodies still entwined from lovemaking, and Fiona knew she was irrevocably changed.

* * *

_**Miami, shortly after Michael is burned.**_

_The first time,_ she said to herself again, trying to shake off the memory.

He still didn't know. Even after their fiery relationship and all they'd survived, together. When he'd left her that night ten years ago, she still hadn't told him. They were so many things she'd never told him.

_And you never have to_, she kept thinking, _Just leave. Go. Now. It's good he never knew what he meant, what he was to you. He doesn't deserve you._

And still, against everything her mind was telling her, one phrase twisted her heart.

_You know how you react, when someone has a gun to your head and you just do what your body tells you to do? How you go with what you feel, without thinking? That's how we live, Michael…_

So she kicked him, hard, in the ribs, and met those damned blue eyes when he opened them and asked, "Where am I?"


	2. Chapter 2

**So I've decided to make this a series of oneshots, I suppose. I really appreciate the feedback, too. I wanted to keep reading between the lines of BN, but I can't write a novel-length piece right now, so this will do. This one is a little angsty, and is drawn out of one of my favorite episodes, Hot Spot. I hope you enjoy and will continue to let me know what you think. :-)**

* * *

**The First Time: Confession**

Michael could tell something was wrong with her. As coy as Fiona could be, he could read her. Maybe it was his training, his way of knowing what people were thinking, or maybe it was because her eyes couldn't lie to him. Whatever the reason, Michael knew there was more to this situation than just a job. He'd known it when Fiona had come into the room, huffing her way through a story about a high school boy caught up in violence resulting from defending his sister. Still, Michael didn't betray his thoughts. He heard Fiona and the kids out, including her icily delivered promise to help.

Then, he asked to speak to her outside. On the tiny balcony, they had their usual argument about how he didn't need a new job right then. Fiona made her case, as usual, and Michael prepared his arguments. He had enough going on right now. He didn't need his focus and resources split doing something that local law enforcement could most likely handle. It was then that Fiona said it.

She looked him dead in the eyes and said, "I feel _very_ strongly about this, Michael."

The next argument was on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped. Michael looked into her eyes and saw something rare. Vulnerability. It startled and unnerved him, and he thought back over the job they'd just been offered - a young girl who had been abducted and assaulted, maybe raped, by some older boys. Now, her brother was being threatened for defending her.

Fiona had never spoken much about her past, before the IRA and her training. Most of what Michael knew of it had been told to him in angry bursts as she loaded a weapon or built a bomb. He knew she'd had a younger sister, Claire, who had been killed violently. He knew the subject was mostly off-limits. Fiona had trembled with emotion the last time her sister had been mentioned. Michael had never broached the subject, both out of fear for Fiona's reaction and because he was still clinging to the idea that Fiona didn't have a hold on his heart if he kept their relationship mostly physical. But now, for a moment, he couldn't help but wonder…

"We're taking the job," Fiona spat.

Michael had no time to argue as she stormed back inside the loft.

* * *

Several days later, the job was wrapped up and the conversation was all but forgotten. Michael had bigger things on his mind, mainly trying to unravel another knot in the web of people who'd burned him. This time, he and Fiona were tracking a man with an itch for blowing things up. Michael was on his way to the address she'd sent him, a house where they would hopefully find this bomber. If they could search his place or interrogate him, they might get some answers.

Pulling up to the location in his car, Michael felt his chest tighten. The house was ablaze. Jumping from the car and breaking into a run, he took in the scene. Police and firefighters surrounded the area, trying to combat the raging fire. With a trained eye, Michael could tell no one was coming out of the house. It had gone up in a fire trap, with flames sweeping the dwelling before anyone could make a decent escape plan. If Fiona was still in there, she was…

Michael felt a painful stab in his chest and he couldn't finish the thought. He couldn't think rationally beyond that. All of his training in remaining calm and intentional left him as he ambushed the emergency personnel, demanding to know if anyone had been pulled from the house.

When they finally shook him off, he had to concede that they had no answers. He turned and fled back to his car, angry, defeated, and with a sick emptiness in his stomach that he'd tried to avoid for so long.

_This is why you don't get involved,_ he told himself, _This is why you chose not to contact her. This is why you don't care._

He was involved now, though, in spite of himself. As much as he hated it, he couldn't focus on the reasons why they'd needed to get in the house. He couldn't stay and try to covertly collect evidence as to who might have torched the house or why. All he could do was drive around Miami, searching for her. He traced her route, going anywhere she might've retreated to. He checked her house and the Carlito, where they often would rendezvous after a mission. Finally, when it was long past dark and the rain was coming down hard, he headed back to the loft. Michael was spent and sick and angry. He knew Fiona could get out of most any situation. He hoped he was still worrying for nothing. Still, as he got out of the car, he stood in the rain for a long time, staring at the steps leading to the dark loft. He was confronting for the first time, for more than a few seconds or minutes, that Fiona might be dead. She might be gone for good, and the size and magnitude of the ache in his chest immobilized Michael for several minutes.

It was only when he was soaked nearly to his core that he slowly made his way up the steps. Slowly he opened the door, staring again at the blast damage where he himself had nearly been blown apart recently. Then, as he carefully bolted the door, he heard a voice.

He wasn't sure exactly what she was saying, because the moment felt surreal. At first, Michael decided he must be imagining her, there. But as he turned and stared, she was sitting at his kitchen counter like nothing had happened. She held up a charred cell phone and the last thing she said was all he heard.

"And now, I need a new phone."

Michael just looked at her. He watched her cock her head at his disheveled, wet appearance. He watched her features move into realization, understanding that he'd been worried.

She stared to question him, stating, "You didn't think that…"

He didn't let her finish. Michael went to her, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. He held to her as though the flames were chasing them, as though she might still slip out of his grasp and disappear. And Fiona sensed the difference in this embrace. He kept kissing her, pressing himself into her against the counter, but his need was not entirely sexual. Unlike many of their urgent, grasping encounters where words were lost in desire, this was different. Michael was clinging to her, and she could tell how afraid he had been.

After a long time, Fiona finally pulled back. Still sitting on the stool, she brushed wet droplets of rain off of his forehead and smoothed his rain-soaked hair. Eventually, she said, "Michael, I'm fine."

He looked at her, and she could tell something more was coming. He was troubled, warring with himself, much the same way he did over things with his mother. After another minute, he pulled away from her and crossed to the bed. Sitting down, he said, "Come here."

Fiona quirked an eyebrow and said, "So, no combat foreplay tonight?"

Michael looked at her again, his expression still unsettled, and just said, "Please?"

Perhaps because of how very off his behavior was, she obeyed. Crossing to the bed, she sat in front of him, trying to read what was going on in his head.

Michael looked at her for a moment, and then looked away. Staring off into space, he was quiet for some time. Finally, when Fiona was starting to worry that he'd lapsed into some sort of trance, he turned back and quietly asked, "Fi…what did you mean the other day, about feeling 'very strongly' about that last job?"

Fiona was caught off guard. She was still reeling from the fact that Michael had shown so much raw concern for her this evening. Now, her emotions were wrenched in another direction. She wasn't prepared to answer this question. She never would be. She hated blubbering, emotional conversations, especially ones that showed her potential weaknesses. And yet, somehow, Michael could take her to this place. He was the only person who could draw tears from her eyes and longing in her heart. He was the only man who could break down her walls. Anyone else, she would've slapped right now. Part of her still wanted to slap him. But Fiona looked up at him, and melted.

He was looking at her with such mournful eyes she thought she might unravel right then. Michael had a way of doing that, of looking at her that way. Most of the time, he was all rugged handsomeness and confident smiles. His blue eyes could be piercing, menacing, playful, even smoldering. But every now and then, those eyes would hold such concern, such desperate longing and deep devotion that Fiona had to look away. And now, she was tempted to do just that.

Shaking her head, she said, "Don't look at me like that, Michael. Don't…"

She felt the tears well up, then. Fiona turned away, cursing herself for being such putty in his hands.

"Fi," he said softly, "We put our lives in each other's hands every day. You don't know all my secrets, but you know the ones that made me who I am."

She looked back at him and crumbled a little more. She saw him as a little boy, with bruises from an angry father. She remembered how it had hurt, to know what had been done to him. But she didn't want him to feel for her that way.

She finally looked back into his eyes and saw the hurt register as she said, "I think you know the answer to your own question, Michael."

Michael held her gaze, brushed her hair back from her face and said, "Tell me, Fi."

Fiona let herself go back in time for a moment. She let her thoughts tumble backward to the week she'd spent in the goat stall with Claire. She remembered the patch of green grass they could see through a chink in the wall. She remembered the gray sky and the stench of animals. She remembered hearing Claire's screams as the men forced themselves on her. She remembered her sister's pain more clearly than her own. Fiona had ceased to care about her own body, her own virtue, if she'd ever really had any. But Claire's screams had turned her into something like a feral cat, clawing and howling to be released.

If she'd been trained, then, she could've gotten them out. Fiona was certain she could've outsmarted them, outran them, maybe even killed them. But her brothers had kept the girls out of the fight, until then. Liam, her eldest brother, hadn't seen the value in training them. He'd wanted to protect them, but, instead, they were taken and used as bait, as bargaining chips, as leverage.

In the violent rescue attempt, both girls were wounded. Fiona once again remembered the blood. She had held onto her right arm, trying to stem the flow from a nasty gash. Claire had been stabbed in the chest and throat. She had lay on the floor next to Fiona and had bled out before their brothers could reach them. After that day, Fiona's promise to protect her sister became a hollow, painful regret that she buried deep, and drew upon only when she needed irrational strength.

As she stood in Michael's loft now, Fiona couldn't make the story come out. In a strained voice, she choked out, "Damnit Michael, I didn't ask you for a shoulder to cry on. I don't need your pity."

From behind her, she heard him say, "I don't pity you, Fi. I just want to know you."

Heaving a sigh and trying to feign annoyance, Fiona answered without looking at him, "My sister was killed in the hill country outside of Belfast. We were held hostage, used as bait. The bastards beat her…raped her. She never stopped crying. She was only fourteen, and she was stabbed to death. And I promised," her voice hitched, "I swore I would get her out of there…"

In a sudden fit of rage, Fiona seized a glass off of the counter and hurled at the wall. It shattered, and neither she nor Michael said anything for a minute.

Finally, Michael said, "They did the same to you, didn't they?"

Turning on him, Fiona seethed, "It doesn't matter what they did to me! I promised her!"

Michael stood and crossed to her, taking her face carefully in his hands, and said softly, "I'm sorry…"

Fiona wriggled free, her heart in her throat. Looking at the heavy emotion etched on his face, she did what came natural. She slapped him.

As he winced, she choked out, "Don't do that! Don't feel sorry for me!"

Michael rubbed his face and then looked at her with troubled frustration, saying, "This is isn't pity, Fi. But I can't help that…" he stopped and struggled, "It makes me angry. It makes me feel...and you know I hate that, too. But I can't help it because it's you. And I—"

He stopped suddenly then, and Fiona knew exactly what he'd started to say. Three words. Words they carefully avoided. A confession neither of them was willing to make.

_I love you._

Fiona couldn't let him finish. She didn't want to hear it. It was enough to see it in his eyes. It was their secret, kept silent and held close so that the world around them could never use it against them. It was more sacred when it wasn't spoken.

Michael stood there, staring at her, and Fiona went to him. She kissed him softly and pressed him back towards the bed, because she knew they were done talking. Instead, she reassured him with her lips, kissing him softly and then more urgently. Michael finally stripped off the wet t-shirt, and then stepped away to remove his rain-soaked pants. With him standing in front of her in just his boxers, Fiona didn't give him a chance to redress himself. She pushed him back onto the bed and trapped him with her body. Relishing the softness of his skin under her hands, she translated her want for him into restless aggressiveness.

Michael, however, was noticeably gentle with her. He took his time pulling her clothes away and dropping feather-light kisses on her skin. He revealed her body slowly, tasting every inch, as though he was memorizing every bony angle and soft curve. Fiona let herself do the same with her hands, tracing the line of his spine and the curve of his buttocks. She splayed her fingers over his strong shoulders and nibbled his neck. And when Michael finally slid their bodies together, he held her like that for a long time.

Fiona let her fingers find his dark hair and she kissed his cheeks, both wondering what he was thinking and not wanting to know at the same time. She was done talking. Confession was too hard, too messy. So she urged him in their lovemaking instead. Michael moved with her, all while holding her close to his chest. He kissed her neck and then her mouth again as his movements grew more urgent.

Fiona went with him, letting her body take him and then slowly, with a more deliberate, prolonged ache then usual, to climax around him. When Michael finally released within her, he gripped her tightly. Their sexual encounters had always been powerful, but he seemed more at the mercy of himself than usual. In the last few thrusts that led to orgasm, he wrapped her in his arms and his breath came in ragged gasps. She could feel the strength of his body's reaction across his back. She could feel the heaving of his chest. Then, slowly, the tension began to melt away. Still, holding her close, he kissed her softly.

Michael only pulled away enough to lay beside her, his legs still tangled with hers. They were quiet for a long time, lost in thought. When Fiona could finally feel that his breath had become even again, she turned and looked at him. And there was that look again.

_Damn you, Michael Westen,_ she thought to herself.

She couldn't help feeling that she owed him something, since she'd obviously scared him so badly earlier that evening. She hated being in debt to anyone, but a needy Michael was her Achilles heel.

So, before she could think it through and change her mind, she said softly to him, "You know, you were the first, Michael. In Belfast…in the basement. I was not pure as driven snow, but you were the first man I ever made love to."

With that, she turned away and closed her eyes. She didn't want a fussy reaction. She couldn't even bear to look in his eyes anymore. She simply wanted him to know.

The next morning, however, Fiona couldn't stay. The night had been too much, and she was afraid he might take it all back. She was afraid he would revoke what he'd almost said, or that she might say something hateful. That tended to be her reaction, when people pressed too hard.

So Fiona let him sleep, tearing her eyes away from his naked form, so tempting in the buttery morning light. She pretended to be asleep when he stirred and whispered that he would be right back. She didn't watch him dress and leave. Then, she dressed herself and quietly slipped away, tucking the previous night somewhere in the back of her heart, because she wasn't ready yet. She wasn't ready for him to love her, yet.


	3. Chapter 3

**So...here's the latest of this for now. As so many of us were, I was inspired by the final moments of Last Rites. I just felt compelled to put the visual into words. Enjoy.**

* * *

**The First Time: Three Words**

He was trying to look positive. Fiona could tell the moment she saw him. He wore a forced smile that didn't meet his eyes. If they'd been at the loft or even Maddie's house, she would've called him on it. She would've told him not to play games, using her annoyance and anger to cover how it wrenched her heart to see that mournful look in his eyes. So many times she'd covered how deeply he affected her with forced vehemence, or by kicking him in the ribs. Now, though, Fiona couldn't make herself speak. She couldn't smile or scream. She simply sat there, hollow-eyed, knowing her suffering was white-washed across her face.

And she watched Michael crumble in front of her. His smile faded and his eyes filled with tears. Still, his words belied his expression. Picking up the prison telephone, he told her she looked beautiful. It was the most exposed, raw, honest compliment he'd ever paid her. But then he began to ramble about how he would get her out, how close he was.

Fiona knew what he was saying. He was using a hundred words when he needed only three. Three words they'd never spoken to one another. For the first time, she wasn't interested in playing the game. She needed him at the most basic level. She needed to lay everything on the table, to know that what she'd done for him was worth it. Fiona needed to know that she'd given up her life for someone who was now hurting as badly as she.

So she stopped him, and stated without hesitation, "I love you, too."

Michael stopped, and she saw another level of his emotional armor break down.

"We don't have much time," Fiona went on, her voice choked with emotion, "I don't want to talk about that."

Michael struggled for a moment, and then he started again, this time with tenderness in his voice that Fiona knew he reserved only for her. He started recounting their first meeting, referencing the little pub where he'd first approached her. She went with him, remembering and trying not to let the memories hurt. Still, when he let himself fall back into the lilting cadence of Michael McBride, Fiona couldn't hold back the tears. Michael's face was wet with his own crying, and it ripped her apart. Her Michael didn't cry. She knew that he hurt sometimes, that he would do anything for her. She believed he would die for her, because he was her strength. She pushed and he pushed back. She knew they were nothing without each other, but they didn't say it. Their relationship to this point had been held carefully between them, with neither fully willing to own it. Now, however, pretense was stripped away by the raw reality of how lost they were without each other.

So Fiona listened to him and felt her heart breaking. She gripped the phone as though he might feel her touch through its nondescript plastic. She let her tears run, wanting him to know unequivocally, without game-playing or double-speak, how much she loved him. She took him in, seeing the undisguised longing in his eyes, which were made impossibly blue by his tears. She felt a terrible ache in her throat from trying not to dissolve into sobs. That would be too much for him, she knew. Michael would kill for her, and seeing her reduced to sobs might send him over the edge.

So Fiona held the phone and listened. She watched him unashamedly cry, and over and over, in every story he told, she heard just three words:

_I love you. I love you._

_I love you…_


End file.
